


Weary

by bombcollar



Category: Bugsnax (Video Game)
Genre: Alternate Canon, Cover Art, Gen, Horror
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-03
Updated: 2021-03-03
Packaged: 2021-03-16 10:35:48
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 404
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29823651
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bombcollar/pseuds/bombcollar
Summary: A companion ficlet to some art I made.The journalist never arrives and the island gets quieter and quieter.
Comments: 6
Kudos: 32





	Weary

Wiggle used to come by his little camp and serenade him. If Gramble had the energy for it, he’d sing along, revisiting sad old bluegrass ballads. But lately she hadn’t been by at all. He hadn’t even heard the frustrated sounds of her plucking her banjo, stopping and starting melodies that went nowhere.

Maybe she’d gotten frustrated with him, his refusal to share the paltry few bugsnax he’d managed to hang onto, how he kept turning down her date offerings. He could understand that. He got pretty sick of himself at times. Maybe she’d started seeing someone else, moved away from the beach altogether.

He knew he ought to be focusing on training his snax, but he was just so tired all the time. The breezes that blew in off the water felt colder than ever, and the basalt columns didn’t shelter him like they once had. It was enough to make him think about going back into town, to his barn, but he knew they wouldn’t be safe there. This was the only way.

Gramble wakes suddenly, his mouth full of sand. He’d rolled off his hammock. It’s night, his campfire long extinguished. He spits, groaning, but his whole body feels too heavy to move, and so he lays there.

The bushes around his camp rustle. A pair of round eyes glint in the moonlight. A strabby emerges. One of his own? He can’t be sure. Then another toddles into view, and another. Gramble smiles weakly. Had they come to see if he was alright?

Strong claws grab his shoulders and pull him upright, and for a brief moment he panics, unable to see what’s grasped him. Something’s erupted from the ground, lying warm and heavy on his back, something red, glistening… It’s an arm. A snakified limb, strawberries clustered together, leaves forming fingers. It doesn’t restrain him, only rests against him, like a friend. It’s warm.

Another rises from the sand. Gramble sits still as it tenderly cups his cheek, then places his paw on the back of it, the first limb moving to lay across his lap, curled around his stomach, below his ribs.

The strabbies cluster around him, chirping.

He’s so tired, and the weight of the island feels like it’s welcoming him home.

His eyes slip shut.

He doesn’t worry about how it moves to part his teeth, sharp leaves dragging across his tongue.

He’s finally going to rest.


End file.
